


Storytellers

by azri



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish Keeper, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Storytelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:12:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azri/pseuds/azri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has written enough tragedies to know where all this is going. She was taught that stories are told to keep people going. </p><p>In the end, storytellers tend to find one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“That’s…a nice crossbow you have there”

“Aaaah isn’t she? Bianca and I have been through a lot together”

 _Something_ glinted behind the elven girl’s eyes, and her lips parted before she hastily snaps it shut again, opting for a dry “You named your crossbow Bianca?” instead of whatever wild speculation ran rampant on her mind just now. 

Varric knew this because he caught that glint – the quick flit of a thousand whys and hows and imagined worlds. Another thing he definitely knew was that he has met a fellow storyteller.

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

 

They didn’t get the chance to talk, to _really_ talk, until Haven. 

Waving away offers of dubiously paired bunk beds and spare tavern rooms, he had instead claimed the small area right in front of Haven’s main staircase – The walls behind it high enough to keep off the biting wind, and the spot central enough that everyone coming in and out of the fledgling Inquisition’s makeshift headquarters would invariably pass through his line of sight. 

But it was not just that. The excuse of a tavern Leliana had set up on one of the empty houses did not even have a proper fireplace - Ancestors, it barely had enough space for tables, let alone the increasingly cranky Templars Curly brought with him. So Varric had decided to just make his own makeshift hearth right there and right then – the small bonfire dug and edged with stones just the way his Daisy had taught him, so long ago on the caves of the Wounded Coast. 

The thing with a hearth is that people get instinctually drawn to it. Something about the crackling, open flames is like an invitation to sit down. Hearths promised companionship, an excuse to just be somewhere. But above all, a hearth promised stories, and there is nothing Varric likes more than a place where stories are the main currency. 

It was probably poetic, in a way, that the first one who was drawn to his newly dug out hearth was no other than the Herald herself – Shoulders low and wisps of hair flying around her face, tells that he had associated with close encounters with their illustrious Seeker. But as always, her eyes were bright and full of questions, and they trained themselves on the fire beside him, green orbs immediately softening with something he could not quite place. He smiled, and patted the all too vacant space beside him.

“So, now that Cassandra is out of earshot, are you holding up all right?”

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

 

Keeper. That’s what he calls her. Not Herald, not prisoner, and strangely so, never her name. But she supposes he does that with everyone. Even Cassandra’s ‘Seeker’ had a playful tone edged around it, as if he was implying that it was not her title alone he refers to. 

The child of the stone is a strange one, but she found that his little campfire had become a fixture in her routine. She had taken to plopping herself down beside the dwarf when Solas was too engrossed in his papers, or when everything else became simply too much – too alien, _too human_. And she knew that the latter has to stop – that this is her lot now and she has to embrace it. _Fly straight and do not waver_. But the unease blocks her speech and bows her head, shuffles her steps into familiar patterns every time she enters the walls of Haven. 

But _Keeper_ , he calls her. And a flush of shame and pride blossoms at the unintended reminder. Keeper Deshanna would not have been this weak, would have found a way to belong – even without the strange mark pulsing, pulsing on her palm. 

“You know I’m just a First” She had said one day, idling around the crackle of his fire “Seems inappropriate to call me Keeper, of all things” 

“I did tell you about Daisy, didn’t I?“ She nods, remembering Varric’s tales of the First of the Sabrae clan – or used to be the First. She looked up to see that Varric’s expression had taken a somber tone to match where her mind is going with the story 

”I was there when her Keeper took that demon inside her. Didn’t even flinch, even had a smile for her and everything” He sighed “Daisy told me that it’s a Keeper’s job to remember things, even dangerous ones” 

“But the Keeper also remembers to protect, especially from the dangerous things. They remember so they can make the dangerous decisions” His eyes softens as a stout hand gently settles on her shoulder “And hey, it seems you’re the one making all the dangerous protecting and decisioning around here. I’d say you’re a Keeper already” 

She was silent for a long time, the edges of her eyes prickling with warmth that echoed the one blossoming in her chest. “That is very kind, Varric ”, she whispered at last. 

“Aaaand you know, Daisy also told me that Keepers tells the _best_ stories. I bet _you_ tell the best stories”. 

“Dalish stories” She scrunched up her nose, then. His grin too wide, too warm for her not to play along. “I’m not sure that’s something everyone would be interested in equal measures”

“You’d be surprised. Come on, tell me one. A fun one!”

And she was surprised. She was surprised at how much she missed telling stories. With everyone else in her inner circle she had opted to listen, because before she was a Herald she was a First, and a First helps her clan, even if it was by something as simple as listening to them. As with Cassandra she could be a reminder of her faith, and with Solas she was content to let him impart his much treasured knowledges, but she missed this – Missed the words and inflections, the pauses she would make and the rapt faces as her eyes glides around the fire.

And those faces surprised her. As her story progressed, she noticed that a number of other people had settled around their little hearth. Her voice falters for a moment before something else blooms inside her – Memories of countless other hearths, countless other nights where her clan surrounds her, the stories blanketing them together until sometimes she did not know where her voice ends and theirs began. And this, she realized, these people, are her clan now. 

And she is their Keeper. 

When she was done, she looked around to recognize various people she saw everyday – Cassandra, Blackwall, Master Harrit, the Chantry sisters in front of Threnn’s spot. Leliana with a rare smile on her lips, Enchanter Minaeve, a quiet wistfulness in place of the cool professionalism usually radiating from her very being, and then Solas - face as inscrutable as ever yet eyes gentler than she had ever seen them. 

Afterwards, Scout Harding broke out her lute, and their little campfire tale transformed smoothly into a little celebration that she bemusedly but happily let herself get wrangled into. She finally ducked away from the circle of people, breathless and laughing, just in time before a slightly tipsy Dorian tried to pass the lute to her.  
Only to find Varric standing outside that circle, lounging against the stone wall behind them. And as he had done so countless time before, he pats the wall beside him with a smile. 

“Better?” 

And he is a strange one, this child of the stone – but he understands. And he was the first to listen to her stories in this strange, strange place. So she settles herself next to him and smiles back. 

“Better”


	2. Chapter 2

_“You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going”_

She had laughed, then, back when things were just about closing one rift after another, their goal only to mend the sky once and for all. But oh, a good story always has a twist, Varric had said. And hers had came with an ancient magister and half a mountain coming down upon her. 

As her knees buckles under her all she could think of was how disappointed Varric would be that this story, too, would end like every other he had read and penned. 

Wolves howls in the distance, faint through the incessant beating of the storm, and her blurred thoughts shifted to Solas - _“Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you would be”_ – His small, sad, smile, as if he knew that the only kind of heroes there are would eventually be dead heroes. Solas understood this, and probably thought as much with each day they traipsed around Thedas.

_Should have run while you can, Keeper._

And yet, she couldn’t imagine how Varric would look like, once they realized that the Herald of Andraste won’t ever be coming back to them, that they have to look for a new hero – a new sacrifice – to face the coming darkness. Varric, who had been so adamant in keeping Hakwe out of the Inquisition’s grasps, who had hoped that his friend would be that happy ending. Would he cry? Would he smile the same, broken smile as Solas is wont to do? 

And then she remembered her own answer, light and flippant and yet the most honest thing she had said during her earliest days in the Inquisition. 

_“I would hope to be the hero who is alive and well by the end of the story”_

She grits her teeth and levered herself to her knees, and then her feet – Her staff anchored deep in the snow with each heavy step she takes, because the Dread Wolf take her if she couldn’t prove that to Varric. Couldn’t get him the end that he thought impossible.

Later, she found him amongst a sea of hopeful faces and moving lips, tired and beaten, but grateful. And yet, they see an understanding in each other’s eyes as the voices swelled around them. This was not the end. This was the beginning. 

 

***********

 

It was apt that a new beginning got Varric a new hearth – A real hearth, finally - Built sturdily in ancient stones and set into a little corner just shy of the main door, so that if he sits in front of it just _so_ , he has a view of the whole hall up to the dais where the new Inquisitor would rule. 

As with Haven, he had dragged a few chairs and a table, plonked himself on the spot, and refused to budge until Josephine sighed defeat and directed the redecoration of the great hall around his little nook. A month later, favors he called in presented him with his old chair – packed, secured, and shipped all the way across the Waking Sea from the Hanged Man. It was a luxury in such a troubled time, and yet it had felt right. Kirkwall had been home for so long that he had left all of his stories there, and yet he knew, had always known, that his home is where his stories are. 

And so he would make this fortress a home, until the sky mends completely and the world is safe again, at least for however long it decides to be saved this time around. And as he does that, surely it’s just a side benefit that all of the nobles they seem to be attracting like flies decided to gossip, squabble, and sometimes straight out pass out from one too many of Cabot’s ale right in front of his hearth. Even if this whole Inquisition thing goes to shit, Varric reckons he could still make a killing from the Randy Dowager’s Quarterly with all the accumulated material his vantage point provided him. Provided, of course, that the world would still be around to read it.

As the days passed and the Inquisition grew and grew around them, as rifts are closed and treaties are signed and people from all walks of life are brought into their fold, Varric noticed another unexpected benefit from his location. 

Being where he is most days, he realized that he could also keep an eye on the rotunda door, where a certain elven apostate resides. It was probably nothing to the untrained observer’s eye, Keeper and Chuckles being such private individuals as they are, but it was clear as day that the two are just a hair’s breadth away from going at it like nugs. But while his Keeper is shy and eager, hands fluttering and eyes shining with every little tidbit of knowledge imparted to her, Chuckles is another thing entirely. There has always been something sad about him, as if he is the guardian of some infinitely tragic story that makes his every step cautious and heavy, every touch he graced upon the younger elf fraught with hesitance and longing. And that, in turn, has made Varric worry. 

After Anders, he was all too wary of men who felt too sharp, too focused, too _hungry_. He would not, could not see the look in Hawke's eyes mirrored in his Keeper's after what happened in Kirkwall. And yet Solas was gentle when Anders was all frantic energy – eyes burning with a fire much deeper and wiser than the blue inferno that was Justice’s. He could see how his hands guided the Inquisitor’s with kindness, how like the Inquisition, she too grew and blossomed amongst the turmoil and devastation around them. 

Not a lot of Varric’s stories has love in them, and what romances he has penned could only be called an embarrassment - And yet, he could see love when it’s in front of him, on the light, excited steps his Keeper took as she disappeared into the rotunda, and on the soft elvhen melodies that Chuckles hummed throughout the night after she was gone. 

And in a world so broken and cruel, he is glad that they could have it. For however long it could last.


End file.
